Lay Your Weary Head to Rest
by Avid Reider
Summary: He's getting soft, Eliot knows. If the hitter's willing to admit it, won't the brightest mind of all notice as well? - Eliot's not used to being accepted as he is, and essentially expects to be betrayed. Angst and profanity seem to be a given with a character as intense as our favourite retrieval specialist, hmm?


**A/N: Yes, this title is borrowed from Carry On Wayward Son by Kansas. Jeez, am I inspired to write by every song I listen to? You know what, the best kind of songs are the ones that ****_do_**** inspire you. Ok now I'm being all sappy. Onward to the angst!**

**Warnings: profanity, potential OOC-ness (but not everything is as it seems o.o)**

Eliot was sitting alone in his apartment sharpening a knife boredly. He lifted the blade to inspect it, then deciding it could still be sharper, lowered it again. Eventually he set it down on the table and leant back against the kitchen wall. 'Can't get more pathetic than this,' he thought. Nate had decided that they should have a few days off so he was left stuck at home; he couldn't take an outside job because the price on his head in Myanmar was raised. Although usually this would be no more important than a mention of the day's weather, one hitman found the last safe house the hitter had used then disposed of. Eliot Spencer, a very wary man, kept close tabs on his past residences for security purposes and therefore knew to keep his actions on the down-low for the time being.

Therefore, he was curious and suspicious when his cell phone rang, showing that it was said mastermind calling. Eliot answered with a neutral "Whaddya want?" and frowned when the response was a slurred "El'ot, come ov'r here, need your h'lp, I fell an' I can't seem to be abl' to get up."

"Nate, you're drunk. Hang up and go to bed, drink some coffee. Don't call me again."

"Wait, no, jus' come 'ere, come on, I'm outta scotch... can you bring me up some, Eliot? You can watch hockey on the flat screens."

Eliot considered it. Though he was loathe to support the mastermind's drinking problem, he was pretty bored and a good hockey match would be a decent pass-time. Sighing as he caved, the hitter relented. "I'll be right over." He hung up, grabbing his jacket and the keys to his pickup.

He was at McRory's Pub within ten minutes and grabbed a bottle of scotch from the bar. He climbed the stairs to Nate's apartment and reached the door, entering without warning to find the former insurance investigator leaning against the counter.

"Finally, the world's best hitter, done fetching me my liquor! Hand it over." Nate said loudly.

Eliot stopped to set the bottle next to him. "Didn't fetch you nothin', just bored to hell. Came to use your tv, not ta facilitate your alcoholism."

"I'm a functioning alcoholic, Eliot, and I'm fine."

"Doesn't look like you're functioning too well to me."

"Hey, I don't pay you to talk back. Just get me a glass."

"I ain't your servant, and you better watch it 'cause I ain't got much tolerance for drunks."

"Why's that, hmm?" Nate stumbled forward, pointing at him. "You act all tough but I know you better."

"Oh yeah? Whaddya know, old man?"

"That's right, this ring any bells? Drunk man in control of your life? Your old man. I bet I remind you a' him. Hardison told me you were talkin' about him an' you started crying. Your ol' man that bad? I bet he's where you learned to take orders, am I right?"

"Don't do this, Nate. You're wasted so I'll let it slide this once, so you'd better shut the hell up."

The mastermind continued to approach him, squinting in anger. "Show me."

Eliot stepped back. "What?"

"Show me what he did. I wanna see."

"You don't know what you're talking 'bout. Back off or I'll make you."

"Defensive. So there are scars? Wonder from what. Big bad daddy beat you with his belt?"

Eliot growled. "Ain't gonna take this. Step away, Nathan. Last warning."

Nate stepped back just far enough to lock the door. "You're not leaving 'til I get an answer or you cut me down. I want to know, I have to know my team, and you'll just have to tell me."

Eliot tilted his head. "Is this why you brought me here? Wanted me to talk, so you drank for courage then decided to threaten me? Or is this just your curiosity becomin' somethin' more 'cause ya can't hold yer liquor when ya get all worked up?"

The mastermind stormed forward and got in his face. "You're either too proud or too weak to hurt me, so talk or I'll make you."

Eliot's eyes narrowed and his fists clenched. "Don't test me."

Nate sneered. "Sophie'd laugh, it's so obvious how scared you are. You're confused, nervous, just waiting for the chance to get out."

Eliot pushed him away and walked to the door before a bottle of scotch crashed over his head.

The hitter woke a few minutes later, lying on the floor in a puddle of alcohol and a little blood. He felt his head and winced as he found where the bottle had hit him. The glass had made a lot of small cuts, but other than that, he was fine. He slowly rose, using the wall as leverage. Looking up he saw the mastermind staring at him.

"Th' fuck, Nate?"

Eliot felt the world tilt and he didn't remember when the floor came up to meet him. That hit to the head must've knocked something loose...

Nate watched the hitter start to sway as he growled, "Th' fuck, Nate?" When he saw he was off his game, he swung a fist and punched Eliot in the jaw, and he went down. Eliot reached up to feel a trail of blood from his mouth and glared at his boss. He got to his hands and knees before a heavy kick hit his chest and he collapsed, gasping for air. Nate flipped him onto his back with his shoe, eyebrows raised as he judged the pitiful sight.

Nate lifted his foot to rest forcefully on his subordinate, holding him down. Eliot grew enraged but he only leaned his weight onto his chest, restricting his breathing and movement.

"Ya think ya can... do this, an'... get out alive?"

The mastermind chuckled darkly. "It's been done, you know you c'nt stop me." Without further warning, he let loose on the hitter. Punches and kicks landed wherever he could reach, and Eliot was dragged down every time he tried to escape. He couldn't get a punch in, and he supposed that was the hit to the head talking. Eventually Nate grew tired and Eliot spat out a mouthful of blood.

"Tha' all... ya got?"

Nate grew enraged and dropped next to him, wrapping his hands around his neck and strangling him. Eliot's eyes widened, he couldn't breathe, couldn't breath... his heart raced and his last thought was, "Why?"

Eliot bolted up in bed, eyes wide and hands scrambling for his neck, which was mercilessly unrestricted. He turned around to inspect every inch of his room but saw no danger. The hitter looked down to see that he was covered in a sheen of sweat, his hair matted, and the sheets were all tangled. He lay back, staring at the blank ceiling. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

A fucking dream. Shit, he was getting soft.


End file.
